Quietly, without much fuss and certainly without any hardcore promotion of sorts, the Jorge night at The George Tavern in Shadwell seems to have become something of a draw. This is not actually especially surprising. For one thing, it's free (although members of the audience are encouraged to make donations for the performing artists). For another, it just gets better and better. The sound equipment has now been upgraded, the bands have a very professional sound, and this just adds to what was already a strong event, which worked purely by booking some of the odder, more daring or just plain ace acts around. It's the only place I can think of where a gothic folk act and a good-time Country band have both been booked (not on the same night, although that is the kind of thing the organisers would do). The whole event is almost like a throwback to the days when promoters didn't give a shit about genres or what target audience they were going for. It's not quite up there with the idea of Jimi Hendrix supporting Engelbert Humperdinck, but there are moments when it draws close. I enjoy these clashes of interest, and rue the day when marketing came into play and music became strictly segregated at gig nights. One of my favourite stories is how at one point in the eighties Showaddywaddy accidentally got booked on the same bill as Extreme Noise Terror, and fans of both acts ended up having a whale of a time - and why shouldn't this be? I'd rather see Showaddywaddy live than any number of XFM flavours-of-the-month at the moment. At least The Waddys would know how to engage an audience.

Then there's the poetry, of course. Ah yes, that. The side platter of prose and verse always has been the poorer cousin to the voltage and volume of the live acts, but that's no reflection on the ability of the promoters and everything to do with the artform's general status at the moment. I did my slot last night to a certain degree of disinterest from a sizeable portion of the audience, who carried on chatting throughout. Some of this chatter could be forgiven, since the band Ghost Club had just finished doing an absolutely storming set onstage and I was on almost immediately afterwards, and a certain amount of the noise came from people ordering drinks at the bar, but nonetheless this time around there were quite a number of people who weren't going to give me even a second's chance. And I did try. I tried requesting a round of applause again for the Ghost Club as soon as I got on stage (and everyone obliged) to get around the fact that a few people were still requesting encores. I tried being really fucking loud and obnoxious, hissing certain lines of work that seemed most pertinent to the situation (one poem had the word "listen" in it about six times, which got said particularly hissily on the offchance that the idea would subliminally sink in). In short, it was probably a grossly over the top performance which an attention-seeking adolescent would ordinarily indulge in, though it wins a number of people over, including a French funk artist who approaches me to ask if I can help him write some lyrics in English. I'm not sure I can do this, but if he drops me a line I'll be willing to see what he wants me for.

Doing performance poetry or readings is actually very hard work outside of the confines of the Poetry Circuit, but the more people are prepared to break out of the ghetto and give it a go the more curiosity it will generate, and the less stagnation (and under-financed events) there will be in the long run. Although it's no cakewalk and can occasionally be rather traumatic, I would encourage other acts to definitely think about getting out into the real world. If indeed the indie scene in London could be considered "real".

The bands were top quality on this occasion. As mentioned before, Ghost Club did an absolutely rattling, thrashing punkoid set which at moments (to my ears) recalled the finer moments of both the early Damned and Fugazi. Their energy was utterly addictive and wonderful, to the point where I forgot that I was supposed to be panicking about my set. No mean achievement.

The Devil in Miss Jones also sounded even tighter and better than the last time I caught them, and their collision of soul, punk and rasping lead vocals is still an absurd sounding live proposition which their myspace profile doesn't really do justice to. It's hugely danceable whilst at the same time being what one more elderly member of the throng describes as an "unmelodic racket", and moves along with a sense of aggression and urgency. The lead singer has a brilliant presence, too, looking at some moments as if he's about to glass somebody around the head, then at others as if he's going to hug the entire audience. But then hey, this is a soul-punk collision, so that's probably appropriate.

The Outdoor Types, on the other hand, were another dish of flapjacks altogether. If I were to say they sounded slightly like early Franz Ferdinand, I've no doubt I'd be slapped by an angry member. However, this need not be a bad thing - what the Ferdinand left behind was actually some fine work. Listen to their B-side "Shopping For Blood" before going to the Outdoor Types myspace profile if you're halfway interested in my idle comparisions. Other than that, there's a "quirky", bewildering, post-sixties garage feel to much of their work, driven as it is by honking organs and odd child-like lyrics. They did an enjoyable and rather slick and stylish set which couldn't really be faulted, but placed between Miss Jones and the Ghost Club they were always going to sound like less of an exciting prospect (and guess who else suffered that unfortunate status?)

A good night in all, then, and I look forward to returning as a punter rather than a participator at some point over the next couple of weeks.